Perfect Pains
by candelight
Summary: Utonium intended to manufacture perfect children. But what happens when you discover that 'perfection' is an ugly and impossible word?
1. Writhe in Perfection

Perfect Pain

Puppets are made to dance across the stage. Perfect, beautiful, sweet little marionettes who do and say as one might please. That was what Utonium intended to create. Dolls are meant to bring others joy. But is that all the girls are to their 'father?' If so, what can they do? And who can they turn to on an empty stage?

_Tre ragazze piccole. Un'equazione che crudele quello conduce alla loro nascita. Puppets che sono fatti per ballare prima di una città rotta. Ma che cosa accade quando le ragazze colpiscono la strada?_

Hey, everyone. Here's an attempt to make a PowerPuff Girl fiction. Heh. It probably won't be very good, but I do hope you like it. This is as close to angst as I can create. As for the ending...I will leave that up to you. ^^

* * *

"_Perfect_."

That is the word that Utonium whispers each night before tucking each little angel of Townsville into bed.

"_Perfect_."

Such a word is thought to be pleasant. After all, Blossom's papers are so often marked as such, coupled with Ms. Keene's usual littering with gold stickers and smiley faces.

_"Perfect."_

So many pieces of Bubbles' artwork have been established as such. The very picture of beauty and childhood innocence is, after all-depicted in the selfsame pictures that litter the refrigerator with multiple magnets.

"Perfect."

In Buttercup's one venture that she is allowed, her occasional temper tantrums and her more violent prone of offensive manuevers, those too, are perfect. After all, how many villains or "undesirables" that rot the good name of Townsville have fallen by her hand?

_"Perfect."_

_"Excellent."_

_"Wonderful."_

_"Superb."_

Such is the praise that goes to the three sole defenders of a broken city. Every headline raves about their deeds. It is unthinkable anyone should even faintly give dissent or disdain towards the three perfect little _tenshi. _Else, you are also an undesirable element of society. For how can anybody not appreciate perfection in its most splendid form-the one that Utonium abandoned his loved ones for years in mad pursuit of recreating it?

Perfect. China dolls. Perfect is good. Perfect is _right_.

Perfect is dubbed so for a reason. 'Perfect' is so rarely acheived in this lifetime, if ever at all. Perfect comes from Heaven. It was what was meant to make everyone and everything happy.

Perfection is in the form of three little girls who carry the burdens of the entire city on their shoulders.

Perfection is being enclosed forever in the body of a preschooler, watching your companions and those you have dubbed as friends grow up from children to adolescents around you, while you are forced to remain in the same Kindergarten class, year after year after year.

You are sweet. You are lovely. When you smile, the world smiles with you, along with a great cajoling of "awwws," all about you. How are you not loved-adored, even?

Perfection is having everyone assume that you have one favorite color.

And thus, all that you own should be that selfsame color. After all, even if you would rather have a violet teaset then a blue one, a blue teaset is presented to you at your birthday-even when you didn't really want a teaset at all that year.

And even when you must battle some terror stalking your home city on a daily basis, you retain your innocence to the point that you are still expected to dress up in a lacy dress, gather your stuffed animals, and sit around a plastic table for a tea party.

If you are crushed into the pavement, and must stagger up again, you may not cry. Should someone kick dirt into your eyes, you, however, must scurry off to your teacher, and weep as if your heart should break.

And, when all people expect out of you is violence, brashness, and aggression, what can you expect for your birthday but punching bags? Gloves? Samurai movies? Even when you would rather have flowers, people will stare at you in bewildered derision, and begin to hysterically giggle at that of someone as violent as you ever doing anything to a daisy other then stomping on one. Should you express any feminism-or explore any part of your nature-you are not a whole of anything anymore.

And, most certainly, not perfect. And we can hardly have that, can we? Perish the thought.

And what will people give you other then a text book? For you are De Facto leader. You are the brains. You do not want to spend your time reading petty comics or romance novels. Certainly not. You must research. You must be brilliant.

You wouldn't be selfish and want to watch cartoons? You wouldn't be so cruel as to not take that extra credit course-even when its overwhelmingly obvious you do not need it?

Of course not.

You are perfect. You can never miss a step.

But, after being told the same word over and over and over again, a child may still be naturally curious to know what said word means?

Blossom was the one who first looked it up in her studies, using the enclyopedia set that she had never asked for for Christmas.

_Excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical improvement._

_Exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose._

_Accurate, exact, or correct in every detail: a perfect copy._

_Entirely without any flaws, defects, or shortcomings._

_Unmitigated; out-and-out; of an extreme degree._

_~*~*~_

_Perfect._

The book had fallen from the little girl's hands that night, before magnolia orbs had steadily filled with tears, and the small girl had buried her head in her small hands.

Perfect.

Utonium never stopped using that word. And why should he? He had left the woman he loved-a kind and dear family-in order to manufacture a perfect child. He knew nothing of being a parent, of course-after all, he had been nothing shirt of a holy terror as a child himself-but to faciliate his own work, he had thrown himself into absolute seclusion in order to create a child to make the world brighter.

To engineer a littl girl that would make the world-broken as it was by greed, discord, anger, and the uncouth ingredients of the human heart-great once again. After all, only a perfect child could manage as such.

For years, he had toiled with his creation-and, after a radius accident in which Jojo had forcibly shoved him into adding a most dangerous chemical compound-the man had completed his goal.

And so, three little girls of flesh and blood had been crafted from mere ingredients inside not a hospital, but a dark, and neglected laboratory. Crafted, not born. There had been no chance for them to explore the reality they had been thrust into. They had not been able to live as infants. Already-learned. With personalities.

They were just...there. Ready made. Perfect.

This story had been told to them many times. But it was only now that Blossom had the stark reality of it all press into her.

She had to bite back her tears, and replace it with a perfect smile.

After all, crying over perfection-a heavenly, God-sent gift-was now theirs. It had already been. Always.

Blossom smiled absentmindedly.

And then, screamed, throwing the accursed book on the ground after sending a line of fire of the accursed pages-leaving it to burn.

* * *

Every year, another porcelain doll joined the others lined Bubbles' shelf, beset in lace and in frills.

She had never asked for a doll. She had never requested one. But no one ever need ask what Bubbles may or may not want. If she is hurting, then a popsickle will make it better.

If she is frightened, then she must be assured that she is an assailant as well as well as an adorable little girl.

If she is angry, Bubbles may not express it. For everyone loves Bubbles-and she, in turn, must love everyone. How else would it be?

In picture to that selfsame innocence, Bubbles may express as much love as she might, but never may she ask what she wants.

Bubbles must be happy.

Bubbles must never make doubts. She did, once-but, thankfully, Utonium hardly interpretated it as such when she finally asked whether or not the professor loved her and her sisters.

The man had smiled, and waved her off in the midst of his work after telling her something.

"I love what you DO," the man said earnestly.

Bubbles is an object.

A toy, really. Just like those porcelain dolls, it is not the doll itself people love-nor learn to love. It is what the doll does that makes them happy.

The doll sits with the others in fine porcelain-unfeeling material that nonetheless offers a charming, simpering smile on painted lips, with a rosy blush painted on her cheeks.

Her eyes are bright, but dull. They do not brim with tears. They do not question why the said orbs must see bloodshed day after day after day.

And still be an innocent little girl after all these years.

Bubbles is Perfect. If someone is hurting, she can't ignore them. It could be a problem so needlessly dull as a girl being jipped by her lover, and needing a patient ear to rant to. If there is a criminal about, she must take care of it, instead of leaving it to the police.

She must be human. But not be human. Just puff. Just another doll that couldn't live for itself.

It is then Bubbles tenderly cradles a small doll in her arms, and stares at the doll, who stares back.

Blank.

Empty.

Unfeeling.

No one knew Bubbles for what she was.

And thus, no one could love her for HER.

The doll stares at her.

It doesn't care for her. And why should it? It needn't care for anyone or anything-just the fact that some little girl should hold and carry her. After all, the moment Bubbles is obsolete, it will simply find another little girl.

SMASH!

The doll is thrown at the wall.

Now, she is no longer a perfect anything.

But a perfect mess of china and lace and shards, complete with deadset, broken eyes.

One after another, the dolls are seized from the shelf, and, one after another, meet the same fate. They are smashed. They are torn. They are left in a wrecked pile of what may have once been figures, but now, were unintengible, powdery ruins, lying with discarded frills and ribbon.

No longer little beauties. No longer whole. Or perfect.

Bubbles' blue orbs dilated, and filled with tears before turning away.

Ms. Keene has noted that the girls' behavior HAS been somewhat...unusual, as of late. But just because something is...rather unusual doesn't undermine perfection.

Her eyes travel over to Buttercup-where Mitch and the other boys are attempting to tug her into their roughhousing. Typical little violent girl!

Buttercup's name means nothing. Utonium could come up with nothing for the little girl but the most random name he could think of off the top of his head.

Why Buttercup? 'Because it also begins with a 'B.'" Of course. Neither bright and welcoming-like a flower-or pure, radiant, and beautiful, like a bubble-just a little, golden flower that couldn't possibly give an emphasis to who she is.

Buttercup is expected to be tough. Angry. No-nonsense, no long words, and kick-can until you're gasping for breath.

She remembers when she tried to attend a tea party hosted by one of her sister's girlfriends. But the other girls seemed uncomfortably aware that Buttercup does not belong in a place of beauty, or elegance.

After enduring a good bout of the awkward stares, elbow nudges, and giggles at everything she shyly quoted-the girl excused herself to go out onto the playground, where the boys eagerly shambled her in to their kickball game.

Of course.

Falling in love with the leader of the Gang Green Gang had been a once-in-a-lifetime-chance to show a feminine side she wasn't even aware she possessed. But then, he'd betrayed her. That was first love for you. Garbage-at least for her.

She really shouldn't have tried.

People expected brute strength. Else-what else would happen? Everyone would walk all over her and her sisters-or, at least, more then they usually did.

And who was liable to take three little girls seriously-with or without their powers? Blossom was too busy playing leader when she'd rather not. And Bubbles? Save for her rare, nonsensical fits of rage, she was locked in a world very unlike Buttercup's. One of lolita standards-one of refined sweetness.

Buttercup ached for it. Her hands were dirty. After all-she was the perfect representation of 'spice.' Perfect.

Perfect.

Whole.

There was only way need for her to represent or express any emotion at all: Violence.

Okay, occasionally-she enjoyed it. She was fierce for a reason. But couldn't she allowed to wear anything but green?

_Of course not_, she thought bitterly, as Mitch finally left her be to line up at kicker position. If she wanted to, she could easily kick that thing halfway across Paris.

But that was nothing new. Nothing about them was expected to change-from the day they were born, to their eventual expiration date.

The thought was frightening-but Buttercup had to wince the thought away. If she was a Puff, as it were....

.....what would happen to them? Did they have human hearts? Humans weren't meant to be human. Humans were...something else altogether.

Imperfect.

That's what made them beautiful. Humans were meant to try, to fail, to succeed. They were made to wreck things.

And, to fix them.

They lived with the mystery of their creation-whereas, Buttercup knew all too well how she'd been made. The thought had never bothered her.

Till now. It made her feel remarkably uncomfortable-as if she were back at the tea party, back where she wasn't wanted.

Well...no. She was wanted here-but not for the right reason. If Buttercup had a design flaw, would someone still love her?

Or was she a machine-an automan? Something to be thrown away once you realized it wasn't what you thought it was?

There was little expectation for Buttercup's life-other then continously endure as a five year old girl, graduate from Pokey Oaks again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again, defend Townsville, and....

.............and.....

.......

The rest was blank. What DID she want to do with her life? There was no door that couldn't be opened for her.

An astronaut? Yes. That was easy. She was in better condition then any astronaut.

Boxer? Please. She'd knock them out of the ring before the round even started.

Puffs were born with intensified intelligence. There wasn't anything that she need work hard for. Nothing to strive for. You were a Puff in this city-anything you could possibly ask for was extended for you before you could even ask.

That was Buttercup frowned as she sank onto a plastic seat, feeling Ms. Keene's surprised vision upon her.

No doubt, she didn't want to ask Buttercup of all people what was wrong. That was questioning perfection. A veritable sin.

~*~*~

Buttercup's eyes narrows as the sound of Bubbles' sobbing filters in from a nearby window.

How she would like to cry so easily. When Bunny passed away-done in by the unequal distribution of materials that forged her-the imperfect puff had spontaneously combusted, leaving the three frozen little girls underneath a streetlight-near the torn fabric that had once been Bunny's.

They had buried it in the backyard-it had been the least that had been salvagable. Bubbles had wept brokenheartedly for hours on end. Blossom had crept behind the shed to bury her head in her hands, and piteously weep.

But Buttercup had been left to stand alone near the makeshift grave, where her fists and teeth had been violently clenched, an odd, ripping noise reverberating from her body as her petite figure began to shake.

The world began to tremble in and out of an absentminded focus as she continued to tremble, now immensely pale.

Something violent was shaking inside of her insistently-as if some enormous creature were seizing her by the shoulders, and was screaming at her to do SOMETHING.

Anything.

* * *

Sometimes, Blossom wonders about Princess Morbucks, and her quest to become a Powerpuff Girl. Why, she doesn't really know. After all, while Princess was an incredibly spoiled brat, surely she couldn't wasn't asinine as that.

Morbucks got to be human. Imperfect. That was what made her special. Why couldn't she veritably enjoy what she did have?

After reading the pyschology books she never wanted and never asked for, Blossom thinks she might have an answer-especially after viewing Princess' home life.

Her mother left for Las Vegas with some other man. As for her father, he had grown up never knowing how to give affection excluding handfuls of cash. He had never even held Princess once, other then having his newborn little girl gently handed to him by a midwife-and then, much to her shock, he immediately thrust the mewling child into the hands of a bewildered nurse.

She was named 'Princess,' a term of endearment he had never had for her. She had been overdressed in robes that were not meant to be hers-and she was taught to believe that the children playing across the street from the private property of the Morbucks estate were filthy urchin.

Princess was never "spoiled." They preferred the term of "privelged" child.

Oh, how Blossom pitied her.

Like them-Princess rarely had to work for a thing in her life. But the relentless truth that money can rarely buy you happiness didn't seem to claw into her yet.

Nor did she realize that being a PPG was a futile hope. Nix. Nada. Not going to happen.

And, even should it, would Princess really want to be converted into more of a doll then she was already was? She was already dressed on a daily basis-fed, cooed to, carried about, dressed once again....

She wanted the love. The attention. The adoration with something that came from being rich, powerful, and....a hero.

The hero part, she rarely could care less about. Acknowledgement for something SHE had done-on her own-was a prize she would never retrieve. Whether if it was from Morbucks-who only occasionally remembered he had a daughter in the first place-or from Ms. Keene, or from anyone else-was impossible.

But the doll could become human, if she only let herself. If the blue fairy could come for Pinnochio, she could come for a spoiled little girl.

As for Blossom....

The girl stared morosely at her appearance in the looking glass. She had never felt so lonely, or hollow before in her life.

~*~*~

Sometimes, Bubbles suspects Him knows the truth. After all, he's hardly been serious when it comes to actually engaging the girls in combat. If anything, the deranged villain has played circles instead of actually taking the PPG seriously. After all, the pure root of evil-that wasn't a telemarketer or an insurance salesman-was certainly prone to devious tricks, ones that could easily undermind Earthly perfection, should it try hard enough.

The amusement in his eyes is all too evident when they face each other down in actual combat. He rarely thinks them threats. In fact, he seems to enjoy the prospect of three little headaches.

Him will waltz about with little to no purpose at all in his agenda, other then to cause mayhem. And, unlike other villains, Him wouldn't hesitate to crush opposition, if he didn't find them enjoyable enough to play with.

But the girls are different. He taunts and torments them-but there is almost a degree of pity in his green eyes whenever he looms and leers in the darkness.

Him doesn't break toys. He plays with them.

Is that why he's never destroyed them-even now?

Bubbles ponders it sometimes when she hugs her plush Octi to herself-one source of comfort that will take her seriously by not saying anything at all in the dead of night.

Does Him believe them to be little more then figurines without purpose?

They can find no consolation outside of each other. But they're always within an inch of one another-and the reason Buttercup and Blossom are so often nipping at one another's ankles is because they rarely have time to cool off. There's no separation-for how can there be? Home, School-Work-there is no reprieve.

But bad things happen when a Puff goes solo. And the awful terrain of lonelines makes it's dark assualt once again as the puff in question ventures alone over the city of Townsville, over a sea of blinking lights.

The air is curious-hard to inhale at such an altitude as the wind ripples about one's hair. Birds cast odd looks at the peculiar visitors to their realms-such creatures were hardly meant to fly-but continue on their way as the Puff stares about at the world below them.

People continue to rush aimlessly and purposely about the world. Even at the witching hour, motion never ceases-and people about the world are in constant motion, regardless of stasis.

But when you stop-stop, and stand still, when it seems you are submerged completely into the world as nothing more then a particularly unique specimen designated to bring happiness to others, but never to yourself....

The puff freezes, shudders, and hurries to rejoin the others. Better three against the world then one.

* * *

But, one day, the girls are told by Ms. Bellum something crucial.

Something special.

Something that was so veritably wonderful and so terrible to a doll to understand, to comprehend-when dolls do not understand, do not comprehend:

"Girls....I love you. I love you so much."

~*~*~

You.

Though I love what you do, I love you for you.

Such a little thing to ask to hear at least once in life:

_I love you._

Whether by a teacher, a parent, a lover or a relative or friend-to know that you've locked a place in someone's heart-

~*~*~

Occasionally, Bubbles reads the fairy tale about the prince who was transformed into the very form of imperfection to match his own dark heart, with the only available way to break the curse was to learn how to love.

And to be loved in return.

Perfection, Bubbles decides, is an ugly thing, and an impossible dream at that. Perhaps at the gates-but never here. For people to get as close as they can get is more then enough, and that's just fine with her.

To have the mayor's secretary-and a friend at that-say those magic words, ones that the Professor had uttered; uttered, but not really ever meant-

An imperfect person admitted to loving them. And a doll loved her in return.

As Miss Bellum was imperfect, so was their bond. A bond tied to a impudent, asinine mayor's assistant, and three little girls.

And thus, as long as their bond was imperfect, so was Bubbles. For Perfection is a cruel thing, and insists that there be no unpropiety.

After lowering her book down to the ground, Bubbles began to cry-very different tears then what she was accostumed to actually shedding:

_Happy ones._

~*~*~

One day, a few weeks later, it happens.

The day had dawned casually enough. Professor Utonium had sleepily crawled from his labratory, his body automatically making a turn for the kitchen as always. He needed coffee, and needed it now.

But, this morning, the scent of hot, roasting coffee beans did not meet him. The man had started in surprise midstep from the kitchen door, before his eyes travelled over to the nearby clock hanging on the wall.

Half past six. Surely Blossom would be up by now, making coffee as always.

He uncertainly opened the door.

But only emptiness greeted him.

~*~

"Buttercup?"

He passed the girls' bathroom, frowning ever so slightly.

"Bubbles?"

He passed the upstairs closet.

"B-Blossom?"

No answer.

No answer.

No answer.

Finally, feeling more then a tad puzzled, the man had opened the girls' bedroom.

Only, to his bewilderment, to find an empty bed. Had the mayor called the girls in so early?

But, after dialing the nearby hotline, a bemused Mayor simply told the professor that he hadn't had any reason to call the girls that morning. After all, he'd been busy enough as it was. His assistant had so recently up and resigned early yesterday evening.

* * *

The girls were not seen at school the following afternoon. A concerned professor drove about town-but the man had found nothing.

A city wide search was established. Around every hook, every crook, every man, woman, and child was set about to call the girls' names:

**"Blossom!"**

**"Bubbles!"**

**"Buttercup!"**

But still, no answer.

~*~*~

Days went by. Then, the days turned into weeks. The police also continued their search for Miss Bellum-who had simply vanished after resigning. Her flat was empty, and stripped bare. Evidently, the woman had done a bunk.

Crime ran rampantly through the streets. But this time, there were no _tenshi_ to save them. And the residents of Townsville-terrified for their lives-fled soon after.

No one resides in Townsville, now. The streets are barren-and the homes that don't lie in shambled pieces are deserted.

The stores have all been boarded up. Broken glass litters the silent street-which is broken only by the croak of the occasional crow that comes to visit the deserted old ghost town-which is remarkably reminiscent to that of a wintry tree that has been stripped of all its fruit.

Pokey Oaks was practically decimated off the face of the Earth. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but, needless to say, school is out of session....

....forever.

One resident still remains in the ruins. I hear the old professor is still attempting to recreate his success, but to no avail. To be quite honest, I don't much care to talk of that, and shall resume the conclusion of this tale.

~*~*~

The residents of Townsville have scattered to the winds. Perhaps Mojo Jojo is currently trying to decimate your town off the face of the Earth, or maybe Him works as that creepy greengrocer near your home.

Maybe Mitch is in your class, or lives in your neighborhood. Or Beatrice and Betty speak of three angels who had dominance over the sky where they used to live. Perhaps you will scorn them. Again, it is your choice to believe me or not-I don't much care.

And of the girls? Well, it hardly is kind to give away confidential information. Else, it's hardly confedential, no?

But I suppose I can spare a few more words.

People are people. Puffs are no different, though you call them by a different name. What has befallen them since the night the four fled Townsville forever?

Oops. Looks like I just gave it away. The cat's out of the bag, now. Ah, well.

It does not seem much to ask-that someone do their best. But to continuously demand for Perfection is a cruel thing, and it is a lesson that the citizens of Townsville learned well, if not harshly.

At the end of the day, three little girls were simply very, very tired. And, they did what they could with what they had where they were. After all, while the habit of wishing to carry the world's burdens upon your shoulders is an admirable one, the only thing you will accomplish is to be soundly squashed, regardless of who and what you are.

To ask that of any man or woman is absurd. And even more idiotic to ask it of three little girls, who were denied the right to live as ordinary children-or, more importantly, as themselves....

....for a period of time.

I will not tell you where they are. But I will tell you that they are very happy, now. It does not seem much to have that someone who wants to make you smile.

But then again, it does not seem like quite a bit to ask-that you be told that you are much loved. I am happy to inform you that the Bellums (As it is now ;) are quite happy, and that the girls are much loved by their parent and peers.

Some say they continue their crime-fighting spree....once in awhile. Not as much is expected of them anymore.

But you know what?

I believe they're just fine with that. Even dolls have their limits.

Well...even little girls have their limits, I should say. The girls are hardly things. They breathe. They bleed. Just as you and I do.

And thus brings a close to the story, with this last piece of definite knowledge I can leave you:

The girls are happy. Imperfect. Careless, sometimes.

And they have every right to be.

Because, wherever the girls might be, they're messing up, in some form or another.

And are having a great time, I might add. ^^

~*~*~

Whoa. Seriously-this was the weirdest, worst Fanfiction I've ever made. *Winces.*

Please, take care, everyone.


	2. Conclusion: When Pinocchio Became Human

Conclusion: When Pinocchio Became Human

人形は人間になる! 花、泡およびキンボウゲはもはや完全ではない

Why search for perfection when imperfection is what makes the human or puff heart whole? When any hopes or girlish fantasies of the future have been forever crushed under the selfsame weight you have been told repeatably that you were born to bear-is it worth it?

And when you receive perfection in its purest form-will you cast it away in favor of flaws? Something you were never born to have-something you never knew you...you...

...?

Is it possible to miss something or someone you've never had?

* * *

Hallo, you guys. ^^ I figured this story was in want of a conclusion-small or otherwise-so, well-here I am. :) I hope you enjoy it.

Please, take care, everyone.

_Quote:_

_"And so it came to pass that the small, wooden child's tears became real, and his hands soft. Painted cheeks glowed with the true apples of Eden that was and is the flush of a healthy young boy! Pine became flesh, and a makeshift heart crafted from oak and gears began to beat 'neath his breast._

_And so it was that Geppetto saw that his young puppet was no longer dead, and had earned the life of a real boy. Weeping with joy for Pinocchio, the old toy-maker tugged his child into his arms, and blessed him profoundly."_

Concluding with that passage, Miss Bellum closes the book with a soft sigh before drawing her hand to Buttercup's raven locks, and caresses it for a moment or two with a thoughtful expression on her brow. Somewhat awkwardly, the young girl leans into the gentle touch, awkward and shy and enjoying it all at the same time. Out of habit, however, she nervously glances about herself, hoping that no one can see her.

The ex-assistant to the mayor smiles sadly, and bends to kiss Buttercup on top of her head before cupping the bewildered child's flushes cheek.

"You'll get there someday, hon. In the meantime, just keep your chin up. It's okay to..."

Buttercup just nods as Miss Bellum smiles again; they both know the little girl already understands what the woman was preparing to conclude with: "It's alright to enjoy affection.

Even in front of others."

All the same, Buttercup knows she is learning slowly; just another sign of the imperfection dotting and marring her previous record of unmistakable, undeniable purity.

It is new; and, to be honest, rather frightening. But it's somehow _good._

It felt_ right_. Accidentally spilling milk, forgetting to bring in the mail-not that much correspondence came to this small cottage on Kyoto Bay-occasionally failing a quiz that their tutor told them to prepare for-

Buttercup's thoughts are interrupted as Miss Bellum sets the book on the little girl's night table, and tousles her hair before she tiptoes out with a gentle, "Good night," before carefully flicking off the light as she quietly closes the door.

In the darkness, the child smiles as she turns in her bed towards her small bedside table, thoughtfully observing the small bedtime story she had asked Miss Bellum to read to her-though Buttercup already had the reading skills of an average eighth-grader. Awkward and uncomfortable it had made Buttercup feel, it was somewhat nice to inch over to Miss Bellum as the woman read about the rather dimwitted puppet and his misadventures in proving to the blue fairy that he could become human-and the girl was pulled into a warm lap without any raised eyebrows-or coughs, or bewildered stares boring holes into her back. After all, she was obliged to keep everyone else's expectations-and such a thing as allowing herself to be held-even by the professor, who rarely did such a thing in any case-was certainly bad for her reputation. It raised doubts; uncertainty.

Buttercup was to hate "mush." She was to be extremely stubborn. She was a brutal fighter.

THAT was what Buttercup was-and what they believed she forever would be.

But no one in Townsville knew that Buttercup questioned on whether or not she HAD an identity-or if it was mere expectation that formed her habits.

Did she have any opinions of her own?

Did she have anything inside other then the desperation of meeting the expectations of others? What colors did she like? Everyone always gave her green-was that what she liked?

Everyone gave her boxing gloves for her birthday...though she couldn't remember asking for them.

And when she had tried on an extraordinarily lacy, prim tea-dress belonging to Bubbles in the dead of night as her sisters slept...and had stared at herself in the mirror, did it not feel...

...somewhat nice?

But Buttercup had felt nervous with the fancy dress on-as if the fine material would burst into flames at the touch of her rough skin. Because she wasn't supposed to like baths or sprays or those flowery-smelling body washes that were advertised all the time on the telly. Professor Utonium could be heard ranting to his college colleagues on the phone on just drastcally how the element of 'spice' had affected his third daughter. It had affected her body chemistry, and her genetic and mental make-up.

In other words, she had been meant to be a born-tomboy.

So why did trying on that pretty dress feel nice? Why did she enjoy growing her hair out-something the professor had never let her do?

...why did it feel so good to have Miss Bellum tuck her in, and kiss her goodnight?

Buttercup frowned in the darkness, and hurriedly switched on her night-lamp before tugging over the small, leather-bound Pinocchio book to her lap. On the cover, a small puppet with a very long nose was bending over to look at a small cricket while a silver star glowed tranquilly over the two figures, with small glows and sparks of light here and there among the vines the two figures were in. What were those? Fireflies?

Buttercup flipped open the book, and impatiently flicked to the seventh page. This was where the fairy told a very eager Pinocchio that he could become an actual human if he so wanted by proving himself brave, honest, and unselfish.

This part before had baffled Buttercup, when Ms. Keene had read the book in front of the class for Pokey Oaks Storytime. Why did Pinocchio want to become "real" so badly? He was already alive-wasn't that good enough? Sure, the kid was wood-which meant that he was termite food-but he could be a kid forever in his puppet form.

...just as Buttercup and her sisters couldn't grow up. Biting her lip, Buttercup closed the book; paused, and opened it once again.

It seemed to her that most adults spent their time dreaming about becoming children again-while the children in her old preschool class had talked of little else other then what they were going to be when they would "grow up."

If kids could stay young forever-would they? If there were no strings attached-no need to prove anything to some old fairy-how many people would jump at the prospect of never growing old?

Buttercup sank her head deeper into the pillow as she stared at the ceiling.

She would have to tell those people that it wasn't great-and was hardly worth it. She knew she would exchange her eternal youth in a heartbeat for the ability to "grow up." Would she exchange her powers for it? Buttercup didn't know.

The girl tilted lightly to glower at the small book sitting innocently on her lap.

If Pinocchio knew that-already knew that watching your friends shoot up and grow while you never changed; always were playing hopscotch while they went on to graduate-perhaps that was why he was so keen on becoming human. He could grow up-be normal-or as normal as someone can be after being granted life by the blue fairy.

Oh, yeah. That line would be great at parties.

Buttercup irritably tossed the book back onto her table, yanked on the cord for her lamp to turn it off-and plopped back into her comforters, willing sleep to come.

Maybe Pinocchio had felt OBLIGED to become a human-after all, that had been precisely what that stupid toymaker and blue fairy had wanted from the beginning. Geppetto didn't know the first thing about parenting-just as the professor knew nothing about the sort, sick sorts they were. Both had MADE their children, and had constructed them from materials.

Pinocchio's dad wanted his son to be happy as a human. But all Utonium had ever wanted was a puppet to dress and direct at the numerous woes encircling Townsville. The people of course-adored the PPG's abilities to solve their woes, petty or nonsensical they often might be-and thus, Utonium's work was well-funded.

Both "parents" had expectations. But unlike the puppet, Buttercup couldn't meet Utonium's expectations. Not on the inside.

Buttercup's face palened in the darkness, and she turned her face to the pillow after biting the inside of her lip to stop herself from making a noise.

In the story, Pinocchio wanted to live and die like anybody else. Which was why he wanted to become human-so that he could obtain an "immortal soul." Blossom had tried to explain it to her, but Buutercup had not quite understood the concept.

When you died, you died, right? You know..."the end," and all of that? The Professor didn't approve of metaphysical talk inside of their home, so the girl was baffled of the thought of enduring on-when you were already dead!

But Miss Bellum had patiently explained the concept of "heaven" where imperfect souls rejoiced at the miracle of meeting in paradise-for, with all of their earthly imperfections-_they had still made it. They had failed more then a fair share of times-and had still done GOOD in the world._

Buttercup inched down into her pillows.

Considering what had happened to her, what WAS happening to her-was she becoming "real" too? Did this mean that she wanted-was...forbid the thought...flawed?

And THAT was what brought true and uncalculable...perfection?

* * *

Miss Bellum only shakes her head and smiles as Blossom continues to giggle-long after the book is finished, long after Blossom has been kissed goodnight, long after the light has been turned off. The red-haired woman only quietly shuts the door, muffling her own chuckles at the sight of Blossom's evident amusement.

The pink-orbed girl settles back into her comforters, feeling at peace with the world as she contemplates the story that Miss Bellum has just read to her: The Prince From The Kingdom of Pasta. Just thinking about the silly king's ambitions against the kingdom of Oregano has the poor girl shaking with silent giggles.

Utonium only allowed the little girl to borrow books that were very much like his own from Townsville library. Were she to ask for a children's book, the librarian would anxiously ask aloud-in front of a horde of baffled people-if Blossom were feeling well.

And the little girl would turn a shade that would make her eyes proud..

Don't get Blossom wrong. The small girl IS sick of children's novels-of having to constantly read 'See Spot Run' year after wretched year in Pokey Oaks.

But that's just school activity. Outside of school, if it's "serious" reading materials Blossom wants, Blossom gets. Still, it would have been nice to have been able to read a comic book for a change-instead of the endless torrent of classes everyone insists she read, just to see what one was like.

But the professor insisted that the books were poisonous to young minds-and outright refused to have any at the house.

At the thought of Utonium, Blossom's giggles die almost immediately, and tears of a very different nature from the ones of laughter that she had been shedding just seconds ago glazed and overtook her eyes.

She wrenched the comforters to her chin, and turned in the dimness of her bedroom. At least Miss B gave the girls their own rooms. Lonely as it could get without her sisters sleeping beside her, occasional privacy was...nice. In fact, Blossom began to think that she was starting to NEED it every now and again for herself over these past few weeks.

She sighed.

Was what Miss Bellum had done wrong? She had put three little girls ahead of an entire city. It was selfish, so incredibly, extraordinarily selfish-and it made the small girl's stomach contort with guilt every time she thought about it.

But she had wanted, needed-craved what Miss Bellum had to offer: escape. That night, when she and the girls had been drifting over the lonely twilight of the dazzling city below-

...

...

Blossom was not all sure when she had snapped. It had been such an impromptu, random moment-in a brief moment of peace-that the calm had shattered, and the young girl had begun to tremble wildly.

The lights below were shimmering more vividly then ever as her normally excellent 25-20 vision began to hastily blur and contort, and run absentmindedly into one another as the haze blossomed over the girl's thoughts-!

Looking back, Blossom had to wonder if her sisters had cracked alongside her. Had there been a peculiar heat upon their faces, too?

Why was breathing becoming labored?

Why did Blossom want to break something?

Why did it feel like she was first to go?

The entire weight of their existence was tumbling about absentmindedly around and on them-like a building shaking under the immense and awesome powers of an earthquake, with bricks plummeting from a foundation faster then feathers fell from a molting bird.

The world spun. It wouldn't stop. Blossom couldn't stop gritting her teeth as her small hands flew to her hair.

And, just as when she had destroyed her dictionaries, Blossom screamed.

Why, she did not know, why, she could not say, as it was taboo, as it was forbidden, as it was everything that had been roughly buried alive in the outskirts of her heart, the one she was never meant to have-!

Y*E!^&!RE*YYIE:O^&%$$?

She had flown through the air, still screaming. Hot tears were falling from her eyes, and the girl could not help but tear at her hair at the now disheveled girl continued her enraged and desperate shriek of despair.

Randomly, she had cast furious bolts of energy about herself as she shot forwards, targeting nothing in particular, her mind automatically taking her somewhere. Where, she did not know. Where, she did not care.

She had at last landed on the ground-and began to sprint, frantic for a way to empty herself of the gnawing energy-the same energy that seemed pliable to destroy Townsville at this moment out of sheer hysteria and insanity.

Where her sisters were, she didn't know.

She forgot she was Blossom Utonium, forgot how old she was, forgot that she was a protector of Townsville. She forgot that she had a sister named Bubbles, and another named Buttercup. She forgot that the professor wanted her to write a new series of theorems for his latest project-which involved Venus FlyTraps or something of that sort.

She only ran on the sidewalks, chest heaving as the world flashed oddly in and out of her eyes-

And then, a pair of hands had seized the startled girl, allowing her no more then a split second to cry out-before she was hastily tugged into the dark recesses of the trash-sprewn, graffiti-enscribed alley.

She had fought; fought like a wildcat, even in her confusion. But a pair of arms soon slipped around her waist, and a familiar perfume makes her halt, and the flames in her eyes seize up for a fraction of a moment-and frost over.

Miss Bellum tugged her closer after dropping to one knee, murmuring and whispering. For a moment, the stunned girl could not move-and then, began to fight to free herself once again.

But even she knew that the effort was pathetic. She can free herself-can burn Ms. B if she wants to. Can, but can't. She fights-but Miss B's hold only becomes all the more constrictive.

The words came then, but they were a babbled mess of disorientated gibberish. Blossom can't even understand them herself until a few minutes later, when she is still panting for breath-!

"Let me go."

They are forced out-and hard to understand. Blossom had not realized that she had been sobbing.

Miss Bellum would not let go. And, later on, the brilliant young girl had clung to her, not wanting her to-even as the woman stared out at the dark, crashing waters of the sea from around the small boat.

She had known. And the receptionist at the Mayor's office had waited for them just that evening-after she had left her resignation letter at the Mayor's mahogany desktop, curtsied-and left, without so much as another word.

She had come to the city-and had waited for the girls to come to her. And, just as she had anticipated, Blossom had been the one to break down first.

The girl's bow was askew as she had cried into Miss Bellum's warm red office suit-had cried, even as the rain began to drizzle down, then patter, then shower-and finally, erupt in an absolute downpour that had everyone out on the town for the evening sprinting for cover.

Brown cardboard boxes around the two had gotten soggy under the rain's plummeting onslaught-but Blossom only continued to wail as she had never wailed before in Miss Bellum's arms, listening to Bubbles' soft cries from beside her as the woman scooped up her little sisters...listening to an ashamed Buttercup bury her head in Miss B's jacket, and weep-!

Miss B had followed up on her promise when she had dropped the disheveled and whimpering girls at their home later that evening: She came for them in the dead of night.

Luckily, the girls had already packed a few possessions, and had silently glided out of their windows as Miss B had waited for them, arms outstretched by her car and U-Haul attached along behind it.

She'd already bought their tickets for the ferry. And, disguised in small hoods, no one thought anything of the young woman who had arrived at the docks with a shipping order that included most of her worldly possessions, car, and three little triplet...'nieces' dressed in dark blue rain jackets, with hoods deeply stooped over their small faces.

Blossom rubbed at her eyes, and sighed once again as she reached for a small cup on her own bedside table, and took a sip of the cold water inside.

Did the professor miss them? Did she miss him? She didn't know. To be honest, leaving hadn't been half as painful as she had envisioned it to be that fateful rainy evening. Miss Bellum bought a very small house in Japan, telling the realtors that the girls were her recently orphaned nieces. She had left it at that.

Luckily, Japanese was not at all very hard for the girls to learn. Bubbles had already been fairly fluent in the language back in America, and had helped the two along as they settled into their new lives. Luckily, Miss B already spoke the language quite well, and got a decent job as an administrator at a local tourist emporium as a translator.

The girls were sent to school-and not to a preschool. Miss B claimed that the girls were older then they truly appeared like-due to a bone growth deficency they had been born with. That was close enough to the truth, and, their senseis accepted that.

For the first time, Blossom had to struggle in her class to get perfect As. It was an enjoyable feat for her, and it kept her busy, at the end of the day. Even if some of her fellow classmates mocked her for her height and peculiar appearance, for the most part, they treated her as one of their own.

As for her powers? They were a well-kept secret. Occasionally, she and her sisters still fought crime-but it was on their own time, and whenever the police couldn't handle it themselves. Her image was blurred in the articles that vaguely mentioned her name-as nobody really knew who the Puffs were.

As she drifted off to sleep, Blossom thought it best to keep it that way.

A pair of sparkling blue eyes watched as Miss Bellum's figure disappeared from the door, and the young girl listened as footsteps began to fade away into the distance. With a small smile, Bubbles drew her small plush octopus to herself under her comforters-one of the few tokens of her old life that she still carried about with her at home.

There are no dolls to be found in her room. There are no lacy, cold, voiceless dolls lining her shelves. Manga and other books litter the small shelves that Bubbles clumsily installed herself in the little room she now calls her own.

It's a bit funny, she supposes, as she inhales Octi's comforting, unique scent. Though Bubbles still draws quite a bit, no more childish pictures of daisies litter the walls. Now, she is free to use her own ingenuity-a thought that is startling as well as just a little bit scary, these days.

She wriggles lightly, and presses her small plush bunny-which she named Usagi-to her side, remembering when a shy little boy named Sora Fujitaka had given it to her for Valentine's day. She blushes lightly at the memory. Sora is nice-and he smells like vanilla beans.

Back home, the ever-constant expectation from others was that she would someday date Boomer, her PPG antithesis-never mind that the boy found girls disgusting, and had attempted to destroy her more then once. But then again, it would be RIGHT to marry someone as good for you as...someone like you.

Bubbles' eyes overflow with tears as she remembers the professor's words, as he debated on whether or not the four year old girls would ever mate to one of his colleagues-while the girls had been eating cereal beside them.

It was hoped that they would one day each wed their RowdyRuff counterpart-and each have a child with them. She supposed that the Ruffs wanting to destroy the world and the Puffs desperately trying to save it had no part to play there-in the people's eyes.

She whimpers; and she hears footsteps on the stairs again. If it had been the professor, the child would have immediately silenced her tears, and pretended to be asleep-but Miss B is far different from anyone else she has resided with. It was not unusual for the little girl to seek nightly protection from the wraiths of the witching hour- wraiths that power could not deter, or fight back-with Miss B. The young woman would absently rub at the small girl's head as she read a small paperback book in bed, the sound of rustling pages making the girl feel sleepier and sleepier-and safer and safer. Sometimes, Ms. B brought hot chocolate. That sounded nice.

Bubbles was halfway out of bed to have just that with Miss B when she remembered with a sickening thud. Oh. Miss B was watching a scary movie downstairs. Hadn't the woman told her just that after she had finished reading a chapter of _Peter Pan_?

Well, she'd seek an alternative, then. Bubbles was lonely. Peculiar that she could admit it now.

Without another thought, Bubbles slipped out of bed, and glided out the door, making a beeline for Blossom's room.

Whew. The part 2 of this Conclusion comes in a bit. Not quite happy with this fiction, seeing as I know it can be better...


	3. The Heartless Puppet Finds A Heart

When Pinocchio Became Human, Part Two

Only absentmindedly listening to the gaudy and tasteless horror film flickering from the front of the TV, I smile lightly as I hear one of the girls giggling from upstairs. It must be Buttercup. I do love to hear the dear let out a natural laugh-not just a series of nervous giggles or brunt scoffs and sneers.

The latter is her common front, and her most basic defense for her character. I shake my head once, sigh, and use the remote to flip the so-called scary movie to a pause (The only thing remotely scary about this piece of junk is how much these terrible actors are being paid) and reach for the popcorn bowl beside me. It's a shame I can't share this with the girls, but this movie is rated C for Corn, and, in any case, they need their sleep. Tomorrow was Sunday-the one day off the schools in Japan had during the week, excluding holidays.

My brow furrows as I help myself to yet another yummy bit of popcorn, and I glance back at the nearby calendar that's on the Fridge. Hmmm...nothing planned. Excellent. I remember looking at the calendar at the Professor's home-where it was so littered with dates that it was almost impossible to see the small number in the square corner completely surrounded by words and times in ink black pen...

_Monday: Blossom has a soccer game from three to five._

_Blossom hated soccer. But she'd been signed up for it in any case, and so, was expected to play._

_Buttercup: Football practice, then attending boxing tournament with Mitch._

My recently manicured nails begin to sink into my palms. Buttercup was good at it, alright-but found playing with the horde of jeering, mocking, and sweaty high school boys rather daunting. Nonetheless, the professor was always sure to drop her off every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday evening.

_Bubbles-piano recital._

_The professor had never even attended one of these performances, nor had he noted that the piano lid had accidentally fallen from its stopper...and had landed on Bubbles' fingertips. I had attended that day, and had noted just how awkwardly the girl had to play the notes with bandaged fingertips. _

As if to add insult to injury, while I had sat wincing in the audience, I remembered when Bubbles had told me that she had always wanted to play not piano, but violin.

That day, after I had met the professor on the street (He had arrived to pick Bubbles up) I "mistakenly high-fived" him.

Only...it had been a high "zero", considering that all of my fingers were twisted into a fist.

And I had 'high-zeroed' him directly in the face.

Concentrating on my breathing exercises, I stared back at the clean, innocent calendar-swept clean of the strenuous amounts of dates that had forced the girls to keep hopping from one place to another. Whether it was Science Fair or Ballet or Hockey, it just never ended. Between that, fighting villains that the police force was either far too stupid or just far too lazy to actually keep in custody longer then three seconds, and...meeting public expectation, it was hardly a wonder why the girls had created their "imperfect" sister Bunny.

My eyes flicker in sadness. I would have very much have liked to meet the poor girl. Blossom had come down here just three nights ago while I was finishing up my taxes at the kitchen counter (I had to apply the fact that I now had three co-dependents with me-wearily rubbing a pink orb, and complaining of another nightmare she'd had of their deceased "sibling."

I'd held the tired, sniffling girl for as long as necessary that night.  


* * *

I scooped up another handful of popcorn, relishing in its salty/buttery/so bad goodness. I nibbled each piece thoughtfully while turning my head towards the TV again-which was now set to static. Huh. Personally, I believe it beats the movie I'd rented by a long-shot.

What would we do tomorrow? The house was clean enough. The weather forecast for tomorrow sounded lovely, too. Spring was finally breaking free of the cold confines of winter, and the residents of this little household are taking full notice. Time to put away heavy winter scarves, boots, and coats-I was ready to bring out one of my nice summer dresses-white, free, and cool. I sigh peacefully at the thought, then wonder if I could make the dress pattern for the little girls. I know Bubbles would look beautiful in white-that little boy at school, Sora would certainly take notice.

...then again, knowing Sora, seeing as how he probably noticed when Bubbles tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, that wasn't saying too much. Amused, I allow myself a bout of silent laughter on behalf of the little boy who had crept to our mailbox on March 14th (White Day in Japan) and sheepishly left a small, brand new, pencil case with Bubbles' name on it before darting away with a red face. That was just too cute.

I lean back in my seat, halfheartedly pressing 'play' for the movie once again. The heroine (Or the girl constantly giving gooey, sultry glances and fluttery eyelids to the hero of the plot every ten seconds he wasn't busy rescuing her from some dire peril, anyway) is now yelling at the villain, who's clearly just as maniacal as those amoeba with fez hats back in Townsville:

"I hate fighting and violence!"

Now disgusted, I flick the movie to a pause, feeling sickened. Boy, what a waste of two dollars. Bleech. Getting into silk pajamas and eating popcorn was a far more enjoyable pastime. Next time, I'd just save myself the trouble by eating ice cream in my pajamas in front of the TV while it was set to "static" mode.

_"I hate fighting and violence..."_

Ecch. What a redundant statement. You might as well say, "I hate jello and pudding," or, "I hate bad sequels." I've come to find that a good 99.99% of sequels are revolting in any case.

Giving up on the movie, I stretch, yawn, and blink blearily, figuring that I might as well go and check on each of the girls before I brush my teeth, and retire for the evening. Before I can flick the lights off, a small flash of light catches my eye. Curious, I turn in its direction-and understanding flutters through me when I realize its just the metallic corner of our old scrapbook.

With a smile and a shrug, I move over to the coffee table, and scoop up the small book before settling down on the opposite sofa to peruse it.

There are no baby pictures of the girls to be found-not at all. But here's one where I'm bending over with a bandage over a wincing Blossom, her knee badly scratched, her skates and helmet askew. She could have perfectly well have stopped that fall had she employed her powers...

But had chosen to make the attempt with her own strength. She'd failed, but done her best, and I had never been more proud of her-excluding the time she had finally broke down, and had come to me.

A salty pearl finds the clear, laminated photo of Blossom, and I'm forced to wipe it away, quickly before moving on.

A young foreign exchange student from England is inching closer to Blossom in a class picture, looking nervous. Ah...it was Peter. The child had chestnut hair, blue eyes, and a large smile. The boy was brilliant for his age, but he was also insightful and sweet. Considering how old the girls actually are in their preschool bodies-how many years of aging they've missed-Blossom IS old enough for a relationship, but I hardly believe that grade-school is a good place to start one.

I wonder if Peter was going to continue to chase her until then. Doubtful, but que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be.

The spell of Neverland broke just a few weeks ago on the girls. I wiped away a fresh line of tears streaming down my eyes as I remembered the fateful afternoon Buttercup had dully measured herself, knowing that her precise measurements have not changed, nor would they ever...

...and, to her shock, had discovered that she had grown a half-inch.

Dumbfounded, she had screamed for us, and we came sprinting. Breathless, I measured again, using tape, a ruler...a different spot, made sure that Buttercup was not hovering off the ground (again)...

I had called a friend of mine living in Japan who had two elements a girl will often find she loves in a man: One, a phD, and two, knew how to keep hush-hush on the situation of the girls. The latter was just as useful as component one, mainly because the last thing I needed was for the public to discover the girls' secret...and it wouldn't be long before regional officials insisted that the girls owed the world their power-protection.

And it wouldn't be long before I'd be socking people upside the face with my handbag, or the girls helplessly giving in after being traumatized by guilt. No. I was not having that. Ever again. So long as I'm alive, I want to help them.

...what happens after that is their choice.

I flick to another picture-one with me sitting on a bench, cradling a sleeping Buttercup in my arms after I had finished speaking to my friend, Professor Fujitaka of Kyoto Takehashi University. The man was a specialist in Children Maladies, and was a molecularity scientist at that, so he'd been the only one I could turn to after the girls had begun to grow-after all of these years of remaining dormant little girls.

He had gently examined each one of the girls after I'd finished telling my story before giving me his theory: The girls had forever been charging and discharging excess power in their bodies by alleviating the people of Townsville of some woe. Every day, they had used every single token of their energy, their strength-exhausted almost every reserve they'd had-before their power returned with a brief night's respite. And thus began the cycle all over again.

But there wasn't any more of that since they had started living with me. The energy-with nothing left to do, nor anywhere else to go, had become restless; unstable. Thus, it had grudgingly allowed the process of actual growth to occur to the girls for the first time. The energy had no choice but to fuel the cycle of aging and advancement-of developing and growing.

Just like any small child. If this continued, and the girls only very scantily used their powers-instead of having to whip them out for every last single thing-he had promised that the girls would indeed grow as they aged. They would become teenagers. They would become adults.

They would grow old.

And...pass away, when the time came.

I had cried for such a long time after that day. I took the girls out of the office and cried. I helped each bewildered girl into my car and cried. I'd sat at the wheel for a good long time and cried. Finally, I drove us to the ice-cream parlor (Everyone was so shaken up, I thought we could all use a little treat) and cried as we settled into our booth. I'd even cried while I was eating my hot fudge sundae.

Bubbles had murmured, "there, there" to me as I cried, and had even offered me her small Usagi-Momotaro handkerchief to me. I started crying again.

But how could I not cry? I _loved_ the girls. I loved them more then I could stand. But if they lived the existence of a "normal girl," (If such a creature can be found)...

...they would die someday. I didn't know whether to be happy or miserable at the occurrence as I'd wept, and Buttercup ambled over to me, her own green eyes wet.

Perhaps I was just...mixed. The same way I am with a lot of issues.

But happy with just the way things were, at the end of the day, I guessed. I eventually stopped the waterworks long enough to buy ourselves another round of sodas. Thank heavens I exercise every day...

* * *

I turn the page to a scene where I've fallen asleep beside Bubbles on the couch, with said girl giggling lightly in her dreams. She looks happy. I wonder what she was dreaming about?

Here is a picture with me rubbing suntan lotion on a grudging Buttercup's face at the beach. Here's Bubbles singing lightly on the swings. Here's Blossom looking up at a star strewn sky. Here's us at a picnic.

I quietly close the book, feeling a chiaroscuro of emotion fluttering through my heart. On one hand, just seeing the little girls off to bed at night was enough reason to kneel in prayers of thanksgiving. My life was complete with them. I loved to live with them. I loved to help them-watch them realize their potential. I loved that they need not fight anymore.

Like that shrill bimbo on the screen...I hate fighting and violence, too.

On the other hand, if you had to choose between one life and the lives of thousands...would you really be the one you picks three lives over twenty three-thousand people? Would you risk everything for those three lives-disregarding the fact that, once you took away the tenshi of Townsville-the place would immediately be struck with corruption from every angle? Political insecurity, rising gang activity, near anarchy and chaos in the streets-

Fire, fire everywhere?

Guilt and doubt darkly bloom in my mind. I HAD to take the girls away. I had tried to speak to the professor-tried to plead that the girls be able to live, and not have to dance across the stage like some perfect, simpering marionettes-

But the girls were his property. As they did not fall under the categorization of 'human' children, they were less then PETS to the professor and the officials. The man experimented on the girls regularly, in an attempt to bolster their abilities in combat. He brought the girls with them to seminars, where people oohed and awed at them-and took pictures while they wrote down notes on a clipboard, occasionally asking the professor a question regarding them. One student blandly asked when and how the girls were going to die if the Chemical X solution caused massive destabilization, and overran their bodies with chemical poisoning.

In the meantime, the girls had to live for him. With their youth and vigor, he received awards. Funding. And he exploited it to the max by appearing with the girls in glaring press conferences as a concerned and loving father...

...who, behind the scenes, once the reporters had gone away, had gone to the local bar to drink three shots of some rubbish before stumbling back to his room-where the girls had been watching TV...

...at two in the morning.

* * *

They hadn't been able to know what it was like to have a heart. Buttercup regularly questioned whether or not she'd had one.

Blossom had been so irreparably damaged by the constant strain of having perfect academics, that the girl had silenced her own needs and wants. She'd been left almost blank. A 'me with a nothing.' The girl had occasional panic attacks in the dead of night that STILL haven't quite left yet. I suppose it will take awhile for any true healing to come-the girls had damaged. The professor had turned his own anger and frustration at times-and, with them being completely unable to fight back...had resulted in a few bruises and a split lip.

I had almost killed the professor when the girls arrived at the mayor's office one day, bearing injuries that certainly hadn't been garnished by battle...

And Bubbles had been left behind in the Puffs. Termed as 'kawaii,' a sweet little girl who had no power in contrast to a courageous Buttercup and genius Blossom-

Imagine living with someone who told you every day-and told their friends while you were in earshot-on what a dull child you were.

But you were never to mind, as perfect angels are to remain so...

SLAM!

I sent my fist flying down into the center of the coffee table, swallowing heavily.

Yes. Maybe I did take the girls away, maybe Townsville is no more then a vacant ghost hovel because of it. Considering that it desperately relied on the powers of three little girls to keep it afloat, it hardly had to make much difference in any case. Townsville would have fallen one day, and the girls with it. They deserved so much more then that. I didn't want them to throw their lives for the sake of a town that was trembling to burst at the seams.

They deserved to challenge. To live. To grow. To live-for themselves, not merely for the sake of others. They deserved to be whole-by being imperfect. By messing things up. By _trying._

Utonium will have to live with his err, because I sure as heck wouldn't let the girls do so.

I make a beeline for the stairs, humming slightly.

After all, even Pinocchio can become a real boy, hmm?

* * *

Buttercup had been unable to sleep, so she'd beat Bubbles to the punch by seeking sanctuary with Blossom. Looking weary, Blossom patted the corner to the right of her, smiling slightly.

"Always room for one more," she remarked, as Bubbles wriggles in beside the girls on the bed, sighing as the soft coverlet is pulled around her shoulders.

Sleepy, Bubbles was about to issue a good night, but her eyes traveled over to Buttercup, who is now staring at the cover of a small, leather bound book.

Blossom extended a curious glance at her sister, too. Whatever book Buttercup has tugged in here, she hasn't read the sparkling title. Buttercup just shrugs sheepishly before tucking it underneath her pillow. After a brief pause, Bubbles clears her throat.

"What book is that?"

Buttercup just shrugs as the girls silently withdraw into their bed, and Bubbles flicks off the lights.

"Just...something really dumb, actually. _The Adventures of Pinocchio._"

Blossom blinks.

"Really? Aw. I've never read the book. I've only seen the movie."

Buttercup laughed.

"The book is better-though Pinocchio doesn't step on Jiminy Cricket the way he does in the book in the movie."

Bubbles blanches as the three stare up at a ceiling of glowing, fluorescent stars.

"...um...ah..."

She struggled for a moment, before sighing, and resuming.

"What happens in it again?"

Buttercup fancied that a shooting star raced across Blossom's bedroom, twinkling as it did so. She shrugged again.

"Dunno. The red fai-um, blue fairy brings Pinocchio to life to grant the old toymaker's wish...kinda. He's not really...real. Just a blockhead of wood."

Blossom shifted lightly.

"I wonder why he wants to become human so badly?"

Buttercup pressed her face into the pillow.

"Dunno. The book says that he wanted an 'immortal soul,' but I'm not sure if that's all. I guess he wanted to prove that he could."

Blossom frowned in the dark.

"What was so bad about being made of wood?"

"Dunno. Guess it was because he was termite food."

Bubbles giggled.

"I think he wanted to make the red...um, blue fairy happy. And his Papa, too. They wanted to see him win-even if he messed up a few times to get there."

Blossom's eyes glittered, but she said nothing. Bubbles curiously leans over to Buttercup.

"It doesn't seem like much to ask for-being...'real,'" she noted softly, leaning her head into her own soft pillow. "But I guess everything that doesn't seem like much to ask for is already in YOUR grasp, or can be reached. Didn't Pino have to get in a lot of trouble just so that he could find his Papa again after they were separated? And didn't his nose sprout an inch every time he lied?"

Blossom didn't move, Buttercup laughed; the sound was rather muffled.

"...yeah. It looked like a bread stick, around the end. Pinocchio was thrown into the world as an innocent-just like everyone else. But he wasn't LIKE everyone else. He was a quick study when it came to corruption, and, because he rarely understood the concept of what 'bad' or 'evil' was, he was still innocent, and people still took advantage of him. It's why he got tossed and turned around everywhere, trying to discover the right person to please-which would make him happy."

Buttercup seemed to think she had said too much, for she withdrew her head underneath the covers. Blossom spoke again.

"...maybe. But he found the person who loved him most was the person that wanted him on the right path-and who wanted to see him happy," she said quietly, smiling as Bubbles squeezed her hand. "Even if it WAS inside of a whale-he finally got a clue, and rescued the toymaker."

Bubbles swallowed.

"Pinocchio drowned-though I'm not sure how, seeing as how he's made of wood...and can't breathe...but the re...blue fairy came for him, and gave him a heart and soul, because he'd earned one. Pinocchio came back to life, and Geppetto danced."

Buttercup scoffed halfheartedly.

"Sap city. Pinocchio becomes human, the re...blue fairy parties-the end."

Bubbles turned lightly in the darkness, blue eyes glimmering.

"So, Pino-chan can be make mistakes. And...it'll be okay for him to do that, right?"

A pause. Blossom spoke.

"...yes."

Bubbles smiled.

"And compared to people that used him-and m-made him know that he was only special because he was made out of wood...the puppet knows the one who loves you is the one that will hold you-or want you safe?"

Silence. Buttercup gruffly spoke.

"Yeah. Blockhead may have been born a different way, but he's still a dumb human. A dumb, good, bad human. He might have come from...parts, 'stead of a body, but he's still good. Better then some."

Bubbles twitched lightly, her eyelids flickering past the overwhelming wave of drowsiness gently beckoning her, tugging at her with cool, gentle fingertips that promise sleep.

"...but that isn't the end."

For once, Blossom sounds surprised as she sleepily turns to Bubbles, yawning slightly.

"...it is...isn't?"

Bubbles just nods, eyes already closing.

"...nope. There's always just a _little _bit more after that, in a story. Buttercup, what happened when the heartless puppet found a home?"

"...he always had a home."

Bubbles shook her head.

"...no. Pino-san went on a journey to become real. He needed to find a heart, first." She opened her eyes sleepily to peer at Buttercup, who stared back.

"And isn't your heart where your home is?"

Blossom smiled.

"...yeah. He found it. But we already know it. But what's left after that? What happens after Gepetto begins to dance around his shop with the child?"

Bubbles' eyes twinkled.

"Buttercup knows."

The dark haired girl started, then let out a sigh.

"...do I gotta?"

She turned in the dark, to find two sets of wide orbs peering interestedly at her. Buttercup sighed, rolled her eyes to the ceiling in defeat, and rolled underneath the comforters.

"...they lived happily ever after."

Bubbles sighed in content.

"But it isn't 'the end' though, is it?"

Something tightened in Buttercup's throat, and her words were slightly distorted upon coming out.

"...nah. It isn't. Not really. It's just the book's way of saying things are just getting started."

The Ever Loving...Beginning


End file.
